


A dream of trains

by ninemoons42



Category: Marvel (Comics), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Books, Cuddling & Snuggling, Inspired by Music, Inspired by Poetry, Lost/Found, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:00:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for <span class="ljuser"></span><a href="http://cottoncandy-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://cottoncandy-bingo.dreamwidth.org/"><b>cottoncandy_bingo</b></a>.. Prompt: lost/found. My card is <a href="http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/208216.html">here</a>.</p>
    </blockquote>





	A dream of trains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afrocurl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afrocurl/gifts), [papercutperfect](https://archiveofourown.org/users/papercutperfect/gifts).



> Written for [](http://cottoncandy-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**cottoncandy_bingo**](http://cottoncandy-bingo.dreamwidth.org/).. Prompt: lost/found. My card is [here](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/208216.html).

title: A dream of trains  
author: [](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/)**ninemoons42**  
word count: approx. 1465  
fandom: X-Men: First Class [movieverse]  
characters: Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier  
rating: PG  
warnings: Too much Neruda maybe?  
Written for [](http://cottoncandy-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**cottoncandy_bingo**](http://cottoncandy-bingo.dreamwidth.org/). Prompt: lost/found. My card is [here](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/208216.html).

  
It all starts the day after the midterm exams have been checked and graded and tabulated: Erik looks up from the pen he’s spinning mindlessly on his desk, from annotating a block of computer code, to find Charles humming happily under his breath as he runs his fingers over a particular group of books on their shelves in their shared study.

After three years of living in each other’s heads, in each other’s spaces, this should no longer be new, Erik half-thinks to himself: how many times has he almost stepped out the door wearing one of Charles’s baggy and shapeless cardigans? How many times has Charles accidentally poured his tea into the mug that is clearly marked with Erik’s name? How many times has one of them gone to sleep alone and woken up tangled in the other person’s limbs and personal space and blankets?

Still, he looks, and the syntax and his pen and his coffee are forgotten as Charles selects one book and then another and then another, stacking his choices neatly on his desk. He watches as Charles turns to one of the bins in which they keep all kinds of papers and office supplies, and digs out a pad of sticky notes and a handful of markers.

When Charles steps out, still humming, Erik actually thinks Charles might have never seen him at his desk, hands frozen over the keyboard of his laptop.

 _Don’t be silly,_ Charles says, promptly. _I knew you were there; I always know where you are, if you’re here, or if we’re in the same places. I waved at you when I came in, actually, but you didn’t seem to notice that I was in the room – until you started staring, that is._ Why _were you staring, if I might ask?_

Erik blinks himself out of his daze and saves his work, and pads out of the study, and he smiles and is quiet until he sits down on the floor in front of Charles’s worn but immensely comfortable armchair.

Charles is curled up in it with a blanket and one of the books, which he helpfully tilts in Erik’s direction. The words _Estravagario (Book of Vagaries)_ and _Pablo Neruda_ are embossed into the pebbled red leather. “Time to teach the poetry unit,” Charles explains. “Well, the modern poetry unit. This year I finally have a proper collection to show off to my students and to my fellow teachers alike.”

Erik runs a finger over the spine of the book in Charles’s hand, down and over Charles’s fingers and the thin skin of his inner wrist, through which the veins show a startling clear blue. It makes Charles smile and bend down to kiss him on the forehead, and Erik reciprocates by reaching up to kiss him on his cheek.

They smile at each other for a long moment, and then Erik tries to get back to his line of thinking. “Dare I ask who got you into Neruda in the first place?”

That gets him a hint of a high hot flush; fascinated, Erik reaches up to him again, tracing his eyebrows and the red at his temples. Charles puts the book down in his lap before replying, in a quiet and shaking voice, “It’s not really a who so much as it was a why. Um. I kind of used Neruda to get over a bad breakup? Long ago. You remember I used to be with Tony.”

“I do,” Erik says. “Do I still owe him an ass-kicking?”

“No, dear, you don’t – I’d rather you didn’t. Anyway. Water under the bridge and all that now, and I have even amply discharged my duty to the man he’s seeing now – Steve Rogers, you must have heard of him, rising star in the fine arts department – by warning him about some of Tony’s tendencies.”

It doesn’t really calm Erik down and he knows Charles knows it, but they nod at each other and let the subject of Tony drop.

Erik watches as Charles scrubs his hands over his face and picks his book back up, as Charles riffles through the pages carefully. Some of the pages are still edged in gilt, but the book seems battered, and Erik likes that in Charles, that he has so many books but they are all well-thumbed and loved, that they all bear traces of him and have in turn left their marks on him.

“Ah, here,” Charles says, and he clears his throat and begins to recite:

Pero allí, despertando de los sueños del bosque,  
la rama de avellano cantó bajo mi boca  
y su errabundo olor trepó por mi criterio 

como si me buscaran de pronto las raíces  
que abandoné, la tierra perdida con mi infancia,  
y me detuve herido por el aroma errante. 

It leaves Erik speechless and breathless and more than a little lost: “It’s been years since I thought in Spanish. Not sure I understood all of that. Care to translate?”

Charles is now blushing all over, and Erik plucks at the collar of his shirt to try and see how far that goes, only to be batted away. “You can try to find it out for yourself, can’t you? But not in this book. This one’s mine.”

Erik laughs and tickles Charles along the ribs, making him yelp and squirm away – and then Erik gets back to his feet, shaking his head, affectionate and warm and amused. “Fine, you do things in your way and I’ll do things in mine. Call me when it’s time to make dinner?”

“Yes, I will.” _Whatever it is you’re thinking about,_ Charles sends, eyes full of anticipation, _I more than look forward to it._

///

Two weeks later, Erik looks up from his book when Charles stumbles noisily into their bedroom, yawning with every other step. There are ink tracks all over his hands, but he only has eyes for the one that leads away from Charles’s mouth. “Been eating your pens again, I see,” he says, and turns the page.

“Need to know where they are at all times,” Charles says rebelliously, and falls into his side of the bed – but he doesn’t stay there long, because he cuddles up to Erik, wrapping his arms around his waist. _What are you reading? Doesn’t look like one of ours._

_It’s new. I bought it two days ago._

“And you didn’t tell me,” Charles says, nuzzling into Erik’s ribs.

“I was trying to give you a gift,” Erik says, laughing softly when that makes Charles sit up straight. He tilts his head and looks exactly like some kind of preternaturally cute human-kitten hybrid, and Erik ruffles his hair before he puts the book aside and murmurs,

...So the motionless train  
sped into the morning, heaping  
its grief on my bones. 

I was alone in the loneliness  
of the train; but more than  
that, other solitudes had  
gathered their baggage together,  
waiting for passage  
like the poor on the platforms.  
And I in the train, a dead  
smoke among improvident spirits,  
bent under the burden of so  
many deaths, felt lost in a journey  
in which nothing else moved  
but my own way-worn heart. 

By the end of the first line Charles has his hands over his mouth, and his eyes are full of tears.

And as soon as Erik finishes he finds himself flat on his back, tackled back into the sheets, and he has a double armful of happy Charles, pleased Charles, soft and warm and a little bit teary-eyed.

 _I assure you it’s the good kind of teary-eyed,_ Charles tells him around a sniffle. _I – how did you know?_

“Know what?” Erik asks, completely perplexed.

“That’s my favorite of Neruda’s that isn’t in the _Love Sonnets_ ,” Charles says.

Erik reels. “Are you serious? It’s just that – that was the one that leapt out at me. Because of how we met.”

“Exactly,” Charles says. “We met on a train. We both stood up to let that pregnant woman sit down. She was beautiful, wasn’t she?”

Erik nods. “Yes.” _But she was never as beautiful as you. And she wasn’t the reason why I remember that train. I remember it because I found you there._

 _Flatterer!_ Charles says, and laughs, and squeezes Erik again.

Erik squeezes back, and kisses the top of his head for good measure. _I’m glad it made you happy._

_You ridiculous man, you know you make me happy. You always have, since we found each other. Can I show you my appreciation?_

“Always,” Erik says, and laughs even as Charles kisses him.  



End file.
